


ain't no saint, sure ain't no savior

by sammyatstanford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Lingerie, Pre-Series, Unadulterated Christmas Fluffporn, Underage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammyatstanford/pseuds/sammyatstanford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is that for me, too?” Dean asks heatedly, and Sam gives the barest of nods. Dean groans. “What are you trying to do to me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	ain't no saint, sure ain't no savior

**Author's Note:**

> A belated Merry Christmas to all of my followers.

The house looks dark at first glance, which isn’t much of a surprise since Dad never did manage to get the power turned on before he left for Wisconsin three days prior. Sam had fiddled with the generator out back and it had eventually coughed to life, but Dean’s not particularly surprised his efforts with that rusty heap of crap hadn’t held out for long. He just wishes it weren’t so damned cold.

He stomps snow off his boots onto the worn boards of the front porch as he turns his key in the lock, and is a little surprised by the warmth that seems to reach out and wrap around him when he steps over the threshold.

“Sam?” he says quietly, following a faint glow down the hallway and into the living room, where he finds a fire burning low in the grate. The little tree in the corner doesn’t have any lights because Dad won’t buy them every year now that Sam’s older, but there’s a multicolored paper chain wrapped around it and snowflakes for ornaments that Sam had made from two dollars’ worth of thin construction paper and cheap glue. In the hot orange light of the coals, it almost looks like it’s glowing.

Sam is splayed out in one of the two ancient recliners that graces the little room, eyes closed, mouth open, the book that’s fallen on his chest rising and falling rhythmically with his breathing. His little brother looks kind of adorable, but Dean feels a little twist of guilt in the pit of his stomach. The gas station was only open until ten, but Dean’d had to clean and close by himself because no other employees had volunteered to work the Christmas late shift, and Sam had clearly tried to wait up for him.

He leaves his brother be for now, goes into the rinky little kitchen, puts the milk he brought home in the fridge, stands over the sink eating a few slices of cold pizza.

 _Merry freakin’ Christmas_.

With a sigh, he finally pulls off his jacket and toes out of his boots, leaves them in the middle of the kitchen where they’re sure to irritate Sam the most. He thinks about just leaving Sam on the chair, but there’s twenty more minutes left to this shitty day, and hell if Dean doesn’t want to spend it with Sam next to him in bed at the very least.

He stops over at the fireplace, shifts around the ash to bank down the coals, makes sure the screen is shut tight before kneeling next to Sam’s chair. Sam’s arm is flung over the armrest, sleeve of his hoodie too short by at least an inch after his last growth spurt. Dean slides his thumb lightly over the exposed skin of Sam’s wrist, thin and warm and soft to the touch.

“Sam,” he says softly, carefully, because Sam is prone to jerking awake at the slightest provocation and hurting himself or the person waking him or both. He increases the pressure of his thumb, jostling Sam’s arm a little. “Sam,” a bit firmer this time.

Sam groans, stretches his arm out to press more fully into Dean’s touch. Dean traces his fingers over the lines of Sam’s veins, knows where they are even if he can’t see them in the darkness.

“You’re home,” Sam says above him, and Dean can hear a sleepy smile in his voice. “I tried to wait up for you,” he continues through a yawn.

Dean laughs, looks up. “I can see tha—Sam, is there something on your face?”

Sam jerks upright in the chair with a terrible squealing of springs, shoving the footrest down with his legs. He turns his face away from Dean as he stammers out, “I..uh..I-I just—i-it’s nothing.”

“Did something happen?” Dean presses, concern immediately swelling up in his chest. He’s been gone almost twelve hours; who knows where Sam could have gone, what kind of trouble he could have found himself in in that amount of time?

“No, Dean, I’m fine, everything’s fine.” He puts his hands over his face. “It’s nothing, okay?”

“Then why won’t you look at me?” He’d only glimpsed it before Sam turned away, but there was definitely something different about Sam’s eyes. They’d looked darker, deeper.

“Because I…it’s stupid.”

“Sammy,” Dean coaxes, reaching out to take Sam’s thin wrists in his hands and drawing them away from his little brother’s face. Sam’s still staring resolutely down at his lap, so Dean gets a hand on his chin, presses until his little brother is forced to look at him.

Dean bites his tongue on the little noise of surprise that wants to escape. “Sam,” he asks, mouth suddenly dry, “are you wearing _eyeliner_?”

He doesn’t need Sam’s mortified little nod to know the answer. Dean’s seen plenty of girl’s wearing the stuff before, even if he prefers his women a little more natural when he can be picky, but he’s never seen it on someone with eyes like Sam’s, already so big and exotic and warm without it. Even in the low light, it’s pretty obvious.

Sam looks fucking _gorgeous_.

But he clearly doesn’t realize that, because he’s trying to wriggle his hands free of Dean’s grasp so he can get them over his face again. “I know, it’s…it’s stupid! I don’t know what I was thinking, I just thought…I don’t know. I just thought you’d like it so I did it—,”

“Sam,” he tries, but his brother just steamrolls over him.

“—but then I was just sitting here waiting for you—,”

“Sam.”

“—and I was more and more sure it was a terrible idea and I was gonna go wash it off but then I fell asleep by accident and—,” he gives a particularly hard tug of his wrists, “—will you just let me _go_ so I can wash it off and we can forget this ever happened?”

“ _Sam_!” Dean says again, but this time it’s emphatic, big brother authority bleeding into his tone alongside the frustration that Sam won’t just _shut up_ and listen to him. And Sam, god help him, has never really been able to ignore that tone, so he thankfully goes quiet immediately.

Dean lifts himself up on his knees, gets his hands on either side of Sam’s face, forces their gazes to lock. “Sam,” he says firmly, “you look so fucking sexy right now that I can barely stand it.”

He swears he can feel Sam’s cheeks heat up under his palms. “R-really?” It’s almost a whisper, Sam’s eyelashes fluttering down in disbelief but then opening up again, like he has to see Dean’s face to believe him.

“Yeah, baby.” Dean drags a thumb along Sam’s jawline. “This pretty little thing I get to come home to.” Sam bites his lip on a little grin, and somewhere under the layer of heat building up under his skin, Dean’s pleased that he can always cheer his brother up. Dean leans up, noses at the hollow of Sam’s cheek. “C’mon,” he whispers. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”

He feels Sam’s hurried little nod in response and climbs to his feet, pulls Sam up with the grip he’s still got on his brother’s wrists, drags him along toward their shared bedroom.

“Did you have a good day at work?” Sam asks as they go.

Dean shrugs. “Meh. Long, slow, my feet hurt. Don’t wanna think about it. Oh, but,” he stops them suddenly, halfway down the hall. “I brought you a little something. Wanted to give it to you now, just got a little sidetracked.” He guides Sam back to the kitchen, pushes the plastic bag on the counter towards him.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to get each other anything this year.”

“It’s nothing. It’s not even wrapped, okay? Just look at it.”

Sam peers into the bag, pulls out the bundle of cheap tissue the guy at the pawn shop had used to wrap it in, digs out the little plastic cartridge. “You got me Pokemon?” he asks excitedly, and the grin on his face notches up to blinding.

“Yeah, well, it’s not new or anything,” Dean shrugs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I just remembered you saying something about wanting it a few months back.”

“It’s _awesome_!” his little brother enthuses. He sets it down carefully on the counter before throwing his arms around Dean’s neck. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean tucks his nose into Sam’s hair, breathes in the smell of him, all soap and sleep-sweat. “Anything for you, baby boy.”

Sam pulls back, dimples winking, leans up and presses his mouth to Dean’s. It’s supposed to be small, sweet, but Dean can’t help sliding his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip as he pulls away.

And then can’t help grabbing onto his little brother’s shoulders in surprise, dragging his tongue over his own lips again and again, marveling at the faintly sweet taste Sam left behind. “Sammy, what is—?”

“Um,” Sam replies, eyes on the ground again, feet honest-to-god shuffling on the floor. “It’s…lip gloss? Sugar cookie flavored lip gloss?”

“Is that for me, too?” Dean asks heatedly, and Sam gives the barest of nods. Dean groans. “What are you trying to _do_ to me?” He fists his hands into the fabric of Sam’s hoodie, pulls Sam into his chest, ducks down to get his mouth onto Sam’s again, sucking the taste of artificial sugar and vanilla off his little brother’s lips. It’s faint, like maybe Sam licked some of it off in his sleep, but still there, and Dean’s hard in his jeans thinking about Sam in the house’s tiny bathroom, hands trembling and cheeks blushing furiously as he oh-so-carefully smudged dark lines around his eyes, slathered sticky gloss on the perfect pink bow of his lips. All for Dean. All of it just for Dean.

Sam whimpers when Dean stops teasing and finally presses his tongue through Sam’s parted lips, chasing the little hints of sweetness and the heavy taste of his brother. Dean knows he should slow down, take his time, make their first Christmas alone since they got together something special, but fuck if he can control himself, not when he can feel Sam shaking with arousal and residual embarrassment under his hands. He gets a grip on Sam’s hips, pushes, backing Sam up, tries to do it with purpose but their feet are tangling together because Dean can’t move them fast enough, until Sam’s pressed up against the back door, head tilted back to rest on the chilly panes of glass so that Dean can lick even deeper into the warmth of his mouth. He feels the press of Sam’s leg at his hip, gets a hand hooked around it, pulls his little brother’s body up and into him, Sam gasping sharply into his mouth as their cocks are shoved too roughly together.

“Dean,” Sam whines, pulling his mouth away, all red and spit slick now, panting for air. “Oh god, Dean, I— _please_.”

Dean can barely hold in his shudder. “Love it when you beg for me, baby boy,” he growls back, dragging lips and teeth down the tense line of muscle in Sam’s throat, almost snarling when his progress is impeded by the thick fabric hood of Sam’s sweatshirt. “Damn it, need this off, gotta get this off of you.”

“No!” Sam says sharply, circling his hips against Dean’s frantically. “No, just this, like this, Dean, please.”

But Dean ignores him, tugs him away from the door so that Sam has to either get both legs around Dean’s waist or get dragged. Thing is, they both know Sam’s growing (seemingly constantly now), but Dean thinks Sam probably isn’t half as brokenhearted about it as he is. He’s sort of in love with the way he’s been able to toss Sam around most of his life, and while there’s something thrilling about the prospect of finally being on equal footing, he’s going to miss the pretty, lithe little teenager that he can hold down, pick up, flip, turn, and position just about any way his (fairly twisted) mind can come up with.

“Dean,” Sam’s whimpering in his ear, sucking at the hinge of his jawline, and Dean doesn’t just feel like he’s gonna come in his pants, he feels like he’s gonna fucking self-destruct. He almost trips, pressing Sam back up against the wall and attacking his mouth again, and the little noises Sam’s making sound more like crying than pleasure but Dean knows better, has learned better, knows every single way to push Sam’s buttons, to keep pushing until Sam is incoherent and beautiful underneath him. And really isn’t that why every single time with Sam is so beyond perfect? Because no one else has ever made, _could_ ever make, Dean feel this way—this crazy, all-consuming, liquid _need_ that lights him up inside and won’t let go until he’s burned it all back into Sam’s skin with fingers and tongue and teeth.

But maybe it’s sort of a good thing that Sam’s getting bigger, because even with all the lust-fired adrenaline pumping through his blood, Dean’s arms are getting tired enough to remind him that oh yeah, he wanted to do this in the bed, take his time with Dad gone, make this stupid holiday something special for Sam in one of the few ways he can, so he tugs his lips away from Sam’s hungry mouth, stumbles the rest of the way down the short hall, fumbles for the switch that turns on the lamp on the bedside table, and finally makes it over to the edge of the bed, dropping Sam there without further ceremony. Or trying to, except his little brother is clinging to his neck and waist like some kind of little monkey and refusing to let go.

“Sam, le’go,” he demands, getting his hands on Sam’s thighs and pushing to get them open. “Come on, baby, wanna get you naked, wanna fuck you til you cry, please please just _let the fuck go_.”

But Sam’s not budging, and that’s when Dean realizes that he’s gone sort of still, no longer frantically trying to rut himself against Dean’s torso, just holding tight and sort of trembling under his hands.

“Hey, hey, Sammy, it’s okay,” he soothes, stroking a hand down Sam’s back in what he hopes is a comforting way, even though right now he’s just completely confused. “It’s okay, baby, we can stop, we don’t have to—”

But he can feel Sam shaking his head where it’s pressed into Dean’s neck. “Don’t wanna stop,” he insists, pulling back to look at Dean. “Just, um…can’t we keep our clothes on? Maybe? You like it like that, right?” His voice is cajoling, and he’s rubbing his fingers around and over Dean’s neck in a manner that’s extremely distracting, but it doesn’t keep Dean from noticing the fact that under the flush of arousal, Sam’s starting to blush a deep, pretty pink all over again.

“Number one,” Dean starts, grabbing up Sam’s wandering fingers in his own hand so that he doesn’t get off track, “you’re not as little as you used to be, kiddo. Down you go.” Sam releases his hold on Dean reluctantly, and Dean deposits him on the mattress but doesn’t pull away, holds himself up and over Sam’s body, only inches between them, so that Sam can’t look away. “Number two,” he continues, keeps his tone casual, “just what’re you trying to hide from me?”

“N-nothing,” Sam stammers, blinks long and slow and perfectly innocent like he can hide from the way Dean’s watching him.

“Something you don’t want me to see?” Dean asks, sliding his fingers down Sam’s sides to rest just at the bottom of his sweatshirt, before he gets a horrible thought, one that makes him pull away slightly although he doesn’t move his hands. “Did you let somebody else touch you?” he asks carefully, and even saying the words sends a flash of jealousy through him so fierce, it’s painful, makes him feel light-headed and sick.

But Sam’s scrambling upwards, trying to press closed the distance Dean’s put between them even though Dean’s holding him down, shaking his head frantically. “No, no, Dean. I’d never. _Never_.”

Dean lets the words sink in below his skin, lets them relax his muscles and return that warm glow under his sternum. He releases his hold on Sam’s hips, brushes the bangs off of Sam’s forehead gently. “I know. Because you’re so good for me, so sweet on me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispers, tilting his face into Dean’s touch. “Just for you, D.”

“Well then,” Dean says gently, “you’ve got nothing to hide from me, have you?” But he doesn’t give Sam a chance to answer this time, just shoves his hand under the hem of Sam’s hoodie, intent on rucking it up his chest, but he freezes when his fingers slide over something soft, rough, skin-warmed.

“Sam?” He’s not getting an answer this time, not with Sam’s head turned away and eyes squeezed tight with mortification, a burning blush on his cheeks that’s impossible to pin down on arousal, but he doesn’t need one, _knows_ what he’s feeling. He gets both hands under Sam’s sweatshirt now, rucks it all the way up to Sam’s armpits and then stands up, stands back so he can take it all in, Sam’s tanned skin under holly green lace.

“Clothes off,” he commands in a rough voice that brooks no argument, and Sam moves, slow like molasses, gets trembling fingers on the button of his jeans, but it’s not fast enough, not _anything_ enough because the heat in Dean’s veins that had banked down to a simmer is boiling now, eating him alive inside like it’s corrosive and he’s got to get it out out out from under his skin, so he gets his hands on the hem of Sam’s pants and tugs hard, gets them off in a rush of denim and casts them off the side. Sam seems to get the picture then, struggles out of his hoodie in a way that makes his back arch prettily on the mattress, and oh how Dean just _wants_.

And then Sam’s all laid out for him in women’s lingerie like the best damn Christmas present of his life. It’s a little one piece thing, cut high on the thighs so Sam’s ever-stretching legs look even longer, Sam’s cock still so hard it’s staining the fabric where it’s tucked up and shifted to the side to fit under the lace. The top of it hooks around Sam’s neck, drapes down a little loose over his pecs, and there’s a deep vee down the chest that his concave little tummy and perfect dimple of a bellybutton peek out of.

“Oh, _Sam_ ,” he murmurs, and he wants to be embarrassed at how breathless he sounds, but there’s no room for it anywhere, not with his stomach swooping like he just fell off a cliff, his mind racing with the endless list of things he wants to do to his brother _right the fuck now_.

“Do—d’you like it?” Sam asks, voice small, eyes glancing at Dean’s face and skittering away in an endless cycle that’s got to be making Sam dizzy.

“Do I _like_ it? Jesus fuck, Sammy. You’re—this—.” He cuts himself off, closes his eyes, breathes in something like composure. He takes a step closer to the bed as he opens them again. “You did all this, just for me?” He waits for Sam’s nod before he goes on. “So good to me. So _beautiful_ for me.”

Sam huffs. “Shut up, Dean, ‘m not a girl.” And Dean doesn’t even want to laugh, because fact is, Sam’s all dolled up in women’s underwear, and he’s never looked sexier or manlier in Dean’s eyes.

“Fucking sexy, then,” Dean amends, and the little smile that twists up Sam’s lips sends an all different kind of warmth thrumming through his chest.

“Well,” Sam says, hips twitching a little impatiently on the mattress, “what are you waiting for, then?”

Dean does laugh now. “Maybe I just wanna look. Not every day a man gets to see something like this.”

“Deeean.” Sam’s petulant, impatient, and half of Dean wants to crush him into the mattress, but the other half wants to enjoy this, take his time, because with the way Sam’s been about this whole thing, flustered and embarrassed and downright cute, who knows if he’ll ever do this for Dean again. Not to mention Dad’s coming home tomorrow, and it might be awhile before the next time they’ll have long enough alone to really savor it.

“Want you to touch yourself for me,” Dean replies, crossing his arms, shifting his stance to something more comfortable like he’s in this for the long haul. Sam makes a shuddery little noise in his throat as he reaches up to work the neck of the little lace number over his head. “Hey,” Dean says sternly. “Did I say you could take it off?”

“No,” Sam whispers, cheeks pinking up again and fingers unsteady as he strokes them down his chest, and god sometimes Dean doesn’t know if Sam’s shyness in bed is all one big act and Sam’s just really good at faking it, because no one can possibly be this sexy without meaning to. If Dean wasn’t hard enough to pound nails before, the hiccup in Sam’s breathing as he rubs over the lace-shrouded head of his cock would do it alone. He stares, mouth dry and lips wet, as those long, skinny fingers slide, caress, manage to set up a snug, squeezing rhythm despite the tautness of the fabric over Sam’s dick, punctuated by a soundtrack of breathy little groans that it takes Dean a long moment to realize he’s responding to in kind.

“More,” he commands, voice cracking a little as he palms himself roughly in his jeans, but Sam doesn’t even laugh, just shifts himself further onto the bed so he can get his feet flat on the mattress, lift his hips up enough to get his free hand down, massaging over the tight tuck of his balls like he can rub away the ache.

“Dean, oh, Dean, _please_ ,” Sam cries out, and his panting breaths sound more like choking. Dean’s watched his little brother get himself off probably dozens of times by now, but there’s something so _pure_ about it, the way Sam loses his whole being in pleasure like he thinks every time he comes is gonna be the last so he needs to _really_ enjoy it. His legs are hanging open loose like an invitation, hips jerking up into the rub of his palm, grip still uncertain over the fabric so he’s really just grinding his cock into the heel of his hand and squeezing roughly at the head, and god, Dean can fucking see it in his mind, Sam creaming inside all that pretty lace, getting it wet and sticky and messy and Dean stuffing it right back into Sam’s mouth so he can clean it off with his tongue, but that’s not what he wants now, not even _close_ to enough.

“Stop, stop,” and Dean thinks Sam might actually be _crying_ with the way he whines, but he moves his hands away immediately, obediently, and Dean just wants to fucking tear him apart.

He’s belly down on the mattress before he even knows he’s moving, mouthing over Sam’s cock, the lace rough on his lips, heat of Sam burning through it like a brand, the chlorine and salt smell of precome getting all mixed up with his spit. He crawls up, tongues his way over Sam’s belly button until Sam’s writhing beneath him, traces the uneven edge of the lace with his tongue all the way up to the jut of Sam’s collarbone, where he doesn’t even mess with the pretense of a hickey, just bites down hard enough that Sam shudders beneath him, takes up a constant litany of muttering Dean’s name like he thinks he might forget it. And then Dean's tugging at the neck of the thing like the secret of how to get it off is sheer effort, growling under his breath when it doesn’t respond to his attempts.

“Here, Dean,” Sam says, “just let me—,” and then he’s shifting under Dean’s body, rolling onto his stomach, saying something else, only Dean doesn’t hear it, too caught up all over again in the pretty picture his brother makes, his lean back bare, muscles moving under the skin, the line of his spine vanishing under green, lace sitting high on the perfect cheeks of his absolutely perfect ass and disappearing tantalizingly into the crack.

“You just unhook—,” Sam is saying, arm trying to gesture awkwardly backwards in the direction of his neck, but it gets cut short with a strangled yelp when Dean’s tongue strokes right up the lace-covered crack of his ass. “Oh, fuck,” and it sounds helpless, wanton, _needy_. Dean licks again, loves the feel of rough fabric on rough tastebuds, the skin beneath it still hot enough to sear. He presses in, gets his whole mouth involved, lets the wet of his spit and the heat of his tongue soak in until Sam is shaking underneath him, trying not to move like the good boy he is and begging, “Let me take it off, Dean, please let me take it off, want your mouth on me, need it, oh please, please, Dean, _Dean_.”

And Dean, gracious big brother that he is, takes pity on his sweet boy, backs off with an “Okay, yeah,” and strips off his own jeans and boxers while he watches Sam contort himself to get the neck unhooked, rolling onto his back and shimmying the lace down, over his hips, kicking it off onto the floor. Dean pulls his shirt over his head like an afterthought, and then he’s sprawled over his brother on the bed, hipbones bruising, legs and arms tangled, so wrapped up that they’re both lost, the physical manifestation of exactly how Dean feels inside his mind every time he thinks about his little brother.

He gets a fist in Sam’s hair, pulls his head back, sticks his tongue right on into the open slot of his mouth, kisses him hot and hard, all need and no finesse as their hips roll together, then bites his way across Sam’s jaw and up behind his ear. “You gonna roll over for me?” he asks, right there, no space between his words and Sam’s skin, and Sam nods so hard he comes close to bashing Dean’s nose. “Yeah, on your knees for me, baby boy.”

As soon as Sam’s up, Dean’s shouldering his thighs wider apart, slicking his tongue up against Sam’s now-uncovered hole, relishing the still-surprised clench of it against his grin as Sam shakes in place before he dives right back in, licking and sucking until the pink of Sam’s hole is red and shivering as hard as the rest of him. He pulls back, jacking his own cock nice and slow, rubs the rim of Sam’s hole with the dry pad of his thumb, again and again, firming up the strokes of both his hands before he leans back in, gets Sam’s ass messy wet with his spit again, and slips just the tip of his thumb inside, pulling his brother open so he can get his tongue in, too. Sam’s cry at the intrusion sounds pained, and Dean knows Sam’s almost gone, has already pushed himself far beyond his normal limits just to make Dean happy. So he lets the rest of his fingers massage just behind Sam’s balls, pulls back far enough to say, “So good for me, Sammy, my sweet boy. Do you wanna come, baby?” and Sam sobs out “ _yes_ ” and Dean turns himself around, twisting the thumb in Sam’s ass as he goes, slides between his brother’s legs like he’s working on a car. He looks upside-down at Sam, who’s collapsed down onto his elbows, head cradled in the vee of his forearms as he stares down at Dean, watches Dean let go of his own dick and bring his hand up to grab Sam’s, angle it down, watches Dean bend his upper back off the mattress to wrap his lips around the head. Dean flicks his tongue over the slit, flexes the thumb in Sam’s hole, sucks once, twice, and Sam’s done, coming all the way into the back of Dean’s throat, tight little body jackknifing as he tries to keep his hips in one place and fly apart at the same time.

Dean gives one last good suck, eases himself out from under Sam’s body while his brother comes back down, and Sam throws a look over his shoulder, says something to the effect of, “Let me lay on my back,” like he knows he’ll just collapse if Dean tries to fuck him like his, but Dean shakes his head.

“Can’t wait that long,” and he drapes himself over his brother, presses him toward the mattress until Sam gives and lies down, legs apart. He lines his dick up with the spit-wet crack of Sam’s ass, ruts himself there, the friction and heat incredible, licking at Sam’s neck and jaw until he explodes, coming so sharp and hard it almost stings, smearing the mess of it into Sam’s lower back with his own abdomen as he continues to rub himself against his brother until it’s all pain and zero pleasure.

After a minute, he rolls off, wide splay of limbs diagonal on the mattress, shuddering hard when he feels Sam’s tongue licking just above the line of his pubes, cleaning off the traces of Dean’s come there.

“Gonna kill me,” Dean says faintly, and Sam leans over him, grins, presses a close-mouthed little kiss to Dean’s lips like he doesn’t want to share the taste. Sam doesn’t bother to try and move him, just gets the pillows from up by the headboard, tucks one under Dean’s head and lays the other down for himself. He cuddles right up against Dean’s side, poking lightly at Dean’s chest until he gets over his lethargy enough to wrap one arm around Sam’s back, rest the other at his waist.

The heater clicks on in the quiet.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean says softly, trailing the fingers of one hand lightly over the gooseflesh on Sam’s arm, using the other to press him in close.

“Hmm?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to get each other anything,” Dean continues, repeating his brother’s words from earlier in the night.

He feels a little tremor of laughter run through Sam’s body. “Yeah, well,” his brother says, voice muffled into the skin of Dean’s chest, “knew you were gonna break the rules.” Sam shifts, presses a kiss to Dean’s breastbone. “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Mmm, yeah. Merry Christmas, little bro.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who offered me suggestions for kinks to include in this fic. I hope you enjoyed your present!
> 
> [This](http://www.fredericks.com/Jessica_Lace_Teddy/47733,default,pd.html?cgid=li88) is similar to what I had in mind for Sam's lingerie choice.


End file.
